


strike funny poses (keep my weapon hand low)

by Bit_Not_Good



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Do Not Archive, Eldritch, Mpreg, Oral Sex, Other, Oviposition, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22124827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bit_Not_Good/pseuds/Bit_Not_Good
Summary: Shameless! Porn! Read the tags and proceed at own risk!
Comments: 4
Kudos: 80





	strike funny poses (keep my weapon hand low)

When Jon wakes, at first he thinks it is a dream, and he does not struggle. He does not struggle as he feels flesh wrap around his wrists and ankles, does not struggle when he realizes he’s sucking sleepily on something thick and damp in his mouth. In fact, that last bit feels lovely, and for awhile he drifts, suckling, till he feels something twitch between his legs.

He pauses. The thing in his mouth wriggles, and now he opens his eyes again in the blackness. Jon flexes his knees- no give. He lifts his bottom away from whatever it is, but it follows, and then slippery flesh presses against his prick.

Jon gags, gargles something, but his prick springs to life with alacrity, as if it was waiting for this, and he groans as he feels whatever it is wrap itself around his swollen flesh and. Oh. It tugs, and when he gasps for air enough to whine the thing in his mouth – a tentacle? It must be – slithers into his throat. He coughs, or tries to, and then some kind of liquid slips down his throat.

Suddenly his skin is on fire. He needs this, needs more, and sucks hard as the tentacles around his wrists and ankles tighten briefly. The tentacle between his legs tugs at his balls, and he swallows and pushes down towards it. A tentacle rubs over his abdomen and he hums, heart slowing as he calms into the touch. This will end when it ends, he thinks muzzily, and it’s doubtful there’s anything he can do about it.

***

For a while, he drifts there, static pleasure singing down his nerves, while the tentacle in his mouth pulls back, still oozing that delicious liquid that warms his belly and sets his skin alight. Jon tongues at the tip, and flushes as the thing twitches and spurts against his tongue. It tastes different, almost dry, and then the tentacle leaves his lips.

“No—” he rasps, head thrashing, trying to follow it. Something dry touches his lips, feeling almost like a finger, and then it slips into his mouth too and he realizes it’s the thin end of a new tentacle, come to give him its fill. He hums again, settles his tongue beneath it and begins to suck. His mind goes hazy for a bit, and while Jon doesn’t remember sleeping, it feels distinctly like coming to when he realizes the tentacles are rotating his body so he’s stomach-down.

He twitches in response, nearly recoiling, but just as before, the tentacle in his mouth slips in deeper, oozing until his reluctance transforms to eager sucking. Someone is moaning, and it’s a long moment before he realizes it’s him.

There’s another tentacle between his legs now, slippery against his hole, and he gasps as he feels the tip catch in the furl there. He’s never done any kind of anal before, but right now every nerve the tentacles touch feels like it’s made of fire, and he feels suddenly that if something doesn’t get in him soon, he might explode.

The tentacles tease him though, and the thought crosses his mind that they might have a sense of humor. The one around his cock writhes and contracts until the beginnings of an orgasm sparkle in the corners of his eyes, and then another fondles his bollocks and tugs them away from his body. It feels terrible, all of his nerves jangling as he struggles to thrust down into that slippery grip, until a thick tendril wraps around his hips and stops all movement.

_Where are they coming from?_

Jon can barely formulate the thought, and stills to concentrate, but the tendril in his mouth plunges forward and he chokes as it fills his throat with slime. He feels almost too full, now, slick and heavy with the amount of liquid inside him, but the thought dissolves as the tendril toying with his arse flattens against the cleft. It’s oozing, he can feel it, and it feels too sticky and not enough, all at once. The thing wriggles, sliding up and down and catching the end on his rim again and again, and soon he’s struggling to press back against it.

He doesn’t notice when the tendrils locking his limbs apart like a starfish begin to move him, so focused is he on convincing the back one to _get inside him, dammit_. It only registers when he feels his knees fold under himself, and then his hands are pulled back and the tendril around his hips unfurls long enough to trap his arms against his sides. Jon sucks in frustration, and is rewarded with a gush of fluid that overflows his mouth and dribbles onto the floor.

He’s resting on his front now, and suddenly there are hands on him, as well, tugging at his nipples. Jon nearly whites out as the tendril around his cock tightens, drawing an orgasm from him, and when the haze clears, he whimpers to feel that it now seems to be sucking his prick in return. He didn’t hear a splatter, so he assumes it’s drunk all his spunk, though why it would want that he can’t imagine.

Jon doesn’t wonder long, though, because something is in his ass and it begins to move. It must have slipped in unnoticed when he was coming, because it doesn’t sting like he expected, and the thing is fucking him with an obscene squelching noise. The one in his mouth pulls out, wraps around his shoulders to lift him from the floor, and now there is nothing to stop his moans.

And moan he does, a litany of “ah, ah, _ah_ —” falling from his mouth as the thing inside him curls and presses against his prostate over and over. The one around his cock is still sucking, undulating unlike anything he’s ever felt, and even through the haze of over-sensitivity he can feel himself harden and begin to drip from the pressure. A thin tendril wraps around his balls, tugging them away from his body, and then his orgasm is sweeping over him like a slow tide as his cum slips from him without the toe-curling pleasure.

“ _Please_ ,” he moans, and sighs in satisfaction when a third tendril parts his lips. The relief doesn’t last; something huge and hard is pressing against the rim of his ass, and Jon squeaks as he is stretched beyond belief, and then the huge something slips into him and the tendril fucking him presses harder. He feels the object move up, up, up, deep into him, and then another one is spreading him open and the tendril in his mouth blurts fluid as he gags around a scream.

***

Later, he can’t remember how many eggs battered their way past his abused rim. He only knows that he’s wrapped up tight, chest to toe, in coils and coils of tendrils, and one is in his mouth, and one is in his ass, and one is sucking his cock. He’s so far past the point of over-sensitivity that his tears have dried, and he can feel the pressure of the tendrils against his distended belly, but his eyes have been closed for a long time. Jon slips in and out of consciousness, and for a time the only thing he knows is sex, and pressure, and quiet.

And then come the pains. He doesn’t know how long he’s hung there, suspended in darkness and wrapped up like a spider’s meal, when the tentacles holding him begin to contract, over and over, pressing against his belly from above and wringing a cry of pain from him as they begin to push his burden down again towards his opening.

They’re bigger than when they entered, and harder, but during his time in their embrace the tentacle in his ass has been replaced, over and over, larger each time, and he wonders vaguely, as he struggles to swallow new tears, if he’ll ever be able to sit again.

Then the first egg is there, pressing against his rim, and the tentacle in his ass which he’d long become used to seems to expand, and suck it up into itself. It can’t seem to get it past his rim though, and suddenly Jon’s perspective lurches dizzyingly as he is once again brought into a kneeling position, chest down. The tendril holding the egg tenses and tugs, expands, pressing against his prostate, and his prick dribbles even as it stretches his rim wide and slips free.

Jon gags again, unable to whimper, unable to scream, as fluid suddenly rushes from his ass, and he wonders if all the fluid he’s swallowed had made up the amniotic sac. The tendril in his mouth has stopped oozing, now, and simply presses deeper at his vocal attempts until he quiets.

The next egg hurts more, rubbing against his tender prostate and spreading his raw rim. This one catches, much rounder than its brother, and now Jon is bearing down, just trying to get it _out_. Finally it gives, and a tear dribbles down his nose as the next one descends.

***

Jon wakes slowly, wrapped so tightly that for a moment he thinks nothing has changed, and he’s still surrounded by the tendrils. He doesn’t move, waits to be moved by them, to be folded and violated and bred at their mercy. Nothing happens.

Slowly he becomes aware of the light behind his eyelids, and the sensation of dry skin, of warmth, of fabric against his body and a quiet humming coming from… somewhere. He opens his eyes gradually, and blinks away tears at the fluorescent lights above him. He heaves a deep breath, and coughs as he’s reminded of the abuses his throat had taken. The noise alerts the person sitting next to him, and a hand lands on his arm through a blanket tucked tightly around his body.

“Jon! You’re awake!” Tim’s smiling face swims into view. “Cor, you’ve been asleep for ages, mate, ever since the birth.”

Jon opens his mouth to ask, _what birth_ , and chokes on the words. His throat and mouth are so dry, like he’d run a marathon in the Sahara without a drop of water. “Don’t talk, the nurses said—” Tim disappears for a moment, and then a paper cup nudes against Jon’s lips and an ice chip slips into his mouth.

It tastes like heaven, and melts far too fast, but Tim continues feeding him ice chips until Jon can cough, once, and clear his throat enough to speak.

“What birth,” he rasps, and Tim’s face twists.

“The doctors said to be gentle, what with it being unexpected and all – I’ll get one of the nurses so you can meet your kid.” He’s gone before Jon can stop him, and when he returns Jon is feeling strong enough to turn his head and look at him. Tim’s holding a small bundle in the crook of his arm, and smiling down at it, but Jon can’t see anything except blanket. A nurse lingers in the doorway with a smile on his face, watching.

“Meet your dad,” he whispers to it as he tilts it towards Jon, and Jon can’t speak for the dread that fills him. His eyes refuse to understand what Tim is holding, the shape of it beyond comprehension, but as thin tendrils writhe out of the blankets towards him Jon begins to scream.


End file.
